The World Stays Not the Same
by R.R.D
Summary: AU The war is over, and the Light Side is in tatters. Harry has been captured by Voldemort, and as a final act in the war he is killed. However, Destiny has another idea for Harry, and now the BoyWhoLived has a second chance to make things right again.


**The World Stays Not the Same**

_An HP Fanfiction _

_Disclaimer: I don't own HP _

**Prologue **

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This was the end. How had he _gotten_ here? When had it all fallen apart—when Dumbledore died? When Hogwarts fell?

That thought was too much for the young man, who let his throbbing head fall to the uneven flagging beneath him with a dull _thunk_. The impact did nothing to stay the onslaught of memories, the brimstone and fire and _death_ that characterized his last moments in the school he had loved so much.

He knew nothing. Nothing since that god awful day, the day he was supposed to graduate from Hogwarts. As it was he had no idea how long he had been sprawled there, nothing but the dark and the smell of blood and body odor to accompany him. The knees of his ruined jeans were a dark brown, the dried blood clinging to the denim and permanently crinkling it. His elbows rested just below the edge of the puddle of crimson liquid, and he ignored it when the stuff began to clump and stain the strands of flyaway hair falling over his eyes. He had long since been robbed of his glasses, and without them he had no hopes of seeing anything. The air was stale and thick with too many unpleasant smells to count, but Harry had long since become accustomed to the polluted atmosphere.

His body was emaciated. However long he had been in here he knew he hadn't been fed for about as long, and only the meager dish of water shoved in through the flap in the door kept him alive. It was empty now, he knew, and it wouldn't be filled for at least another few days. He coughed, the roughness and soreness of his throat causing him severe discomfort, but he didn't look up, nor did he try to move. Moving hurt, and it hurt badly. The bastards that put him in here liked to come in and have their fun with him. The last time they had brought a rusty knife, and Harry could still keenly feel the results of that visit aching with agony along his arms and across his stomach. The crouching position made that particular injury hurt worse, but after awhile it numbed itself up in the cold, and the pressure his legs put on the wound caused the bleeding to slow to the tiniest trickle. His head was constantly assaulted with acute waves of pain; aftereffects of the many Crucios he had suffered from already. They never tortured him enough to make him go insane, of course; they wanted him to suffer, to know he was suffering, and he knew _that_ all too well.

The thudding of footsteps gently shook him out of his reverie, and he looked up fuzzily as the door to his cramped dungeon cell was thrown open. The light, something he had, ironically, long been without made him flinch and squint his eyes, the swimming in his vision making him dizzy. He felt the urge to retch for what had to be the thousandth time, but there had not been anything to let up for a long time. Instead the tiniest spasm seized his gaunt frame, and it passed within a second so used to the feeling was his body. The half-dry blood his face had been resting in a moment earlier still clung to his cheeks and forehead, giving him the appearance of a ghastly specter. In a burst of rational thinking Harry realized he could probably give the Bloody Baron a run for his money now. A laugh, hoarse and croaking tried to escape from him, but it fell silent before it could pass beyond his lips. Instead he hacked, the sudden lack of oxygen making him dizzy.

The door was still open, and when the young man glanced up again a hazy, shadowy figure stood silhouetted against the brightness. It made his eyes water, and he let his head slump down to rest against his chest as he slowly and painstakingly sat up. He ignored the quiet tapping of footsteps, even as a pair of boots entered his vision.

"Potter. Not so mighty now, are we?" Harry would have had to be both deaf and blind not to recognize whose voice that was. He raised his head slightly, a defeated but strangely humored smile tugging at his lips. They were cracked and oozing a slight trickle of blood.

"Tom," he responded, a harsh cough distorting the word almost beyond recognition. The pair of boots remained motionless for a moment, before one suddenly swung up and connected directly with his head. He toppled backward, nonplussed by the now screaming protest his head was making. He had become far too used to this treatment to be moved by it.

"Rather amazing. Still fighting, I see. It doesn't matter, anymore, though. I've had my fun, and you are of no more use to me."

"Aw, Tom, tired of me already? I'm hurt. Tell me, who's the new toy that's captured your attention? I want to know who's usurped me."

'Tom' was quiet, as if seriously considering his words. "Insane already. It's to be expected, I suppose." Harry couldn't see anything aside from the dimly illuminated ceiling of the cell, but he assumed that Tom must have gestured to someone outside his immediate range of vision—which, considering his current object of observation wasn't all that difficult. "Bring him to the throne room. I want all to see the great Potter to fall at last."

Harry couldn't tell you how he knew, but he could tell you the exact moment Tom left the cell. Instead, as he raised his throbbing head, he saw another silhouette replace the first.

"Come on, you scum." Harry let his head flop back unceremoniously against the hard stone as something seized him by the ankles and began to drag him out of his cell. Harry figured the Death Eater responsible for his escort was using magic; none would stoop so low as to physically haul him anywhere.

If he had turned his head to either side, Harry might have been able to mark their progress as he was dragged through the dungeon corridor to the higher levels. He didn't, however, and the only thing he could use to pass the time in his mind were the changing panels of the ceiling and the sharp, biting anguish of his head connecting sharply with each step as he was pulled up the staircase and into the ground floor proper.

"You know," he wheezed out after a short while marked only by the steps colliding with the back of his head, vaguely noticing the crumbling state of the roof, "the ceiling really needs some work. I know a bloke who would get that done for cheap."

The Death Eater didn't answer, but Harry could tell the wizard was irritated when he was purposefully smashed into a corner along a deserted corridor. Harry felt the air get knocked out of him again, and another wheeze seized him as his limp body was scraped along the wall, breathless protest welling inside him.

"Damn! Are you trying to kill me? I'll have you know that isn't your honor, mate. Dear old Tom would have your ass if you tried to off me before he could have his fun."

The Death Eater once again refused to respond and Harry let his head flop down once more, idly watching their slow but steady progress through the hallways. Promised death was rolling off the Dark wizard in waves, and most would have backed away. But no! He was Harry Potter, and he had seen plaid-clad old women more frightening than this. Granted, that plaid-clad old woman had been his Head of House, but really, what did it matter? He shuddered at the memory and pushed it aside clumsily and with much effort, urging himself to focus on something else. Eventually his mind came roundabout to his favorite and only pastime: Getting under the Dark Lord's skin. Perhaps he could get in one last gibe before he was blasted to his death at last. Perhaps a scathing remark about Tom's mother, particularly one about that Love Potion that went awry? No, he had used up all of those already. Maybe about his mixed blood? No, no, he had done all of those already, too…

Harry was still contemplating his choice of last words in the red haze of his fevered mind when the Death Eater dragging him halted, tapping his knuckles on an admittedly impressive looking door, at least twice the wizard's height. Harry, looking up at the mahogany, couldn't resist.

"Wow, what is it with you Dark wizards' affixation with size?" A swift kick to his ribs silenced Harry with an indignant and pained splutter. The Death Eater sneered down at him menacingly.

"You may enter." A sinisterly anticipating voice echoed from behind the wood, and the doors creaked open ominously before the dubious pair. The Death Eater once again magically took up Harry's ankles, hauling him further into the dimly lit chamber. Harry still faced the ceiling, which was now high and vaulted, but he didn't have to look around to know where he was. He had been here too many times before not to recognize it.

The throne room was in a grand shape of resplendence, and Harry winced and moaned quietly as light suddenly flooded into his eyes from nowhere. The room lit up as if a thousand candles burst into life at once, and as the young man turned his head slightly to the side he could see the feet of many Death Eaters crowding and jostling closer for a better look at him. He tilted his head back, and he could barely make out through the fuzzy glaze of his eyes other feet closing in the space through which he had just been forced. There was no escaping now, if there had ever even been a chance of it before.

The Death Eater that was his escort ceased movement in the center of the chamber, and an eerie silence took the mantle where before his footsteps had been the only sound. Harry allowed himself to gaze blankly at the ceiling for a few more blessed moments before a disgustingly serpentine visage swallowed his vision.

"Potter," Voldemort acknowledged, Harry's foreseen doom reflecting in the glee that shone in the man's eyes. Harry gave the best scoff he could, which came out as nothing more than a hiccupping cough.

"Tommy-boy," Harry returned after a moment's silence, his eyes rolling when Voldemort hissed down at him. "Really, you should have learned by now not to react to what I say. It means it's important to you, ya know."

Voldemort continued with his smoldering glare for a second longer before nudging Harry in the ribs with the toe of his boot. Harry cringed at the contact, a sharp, quiet intake of breath the only sign of discomfort. "Still fighting to the last. I think I might miss having you as my adversary, Potter. You were certainly entertaining while you lasted." The Dark Lord then paid Harry no more attention, his focus solely on his followers. "Today is a grand day indeed. Today marks the anniversary of the rebirth of the wizarding world, where it rose up from the ashes and returned to what it was always meant to be—a world ruled by the purity of blood, the ancestry of the people. Today we will all witness the death of the last opposition to our great and glorious empire, the thorn in my side that, at one time, had made all of this impossible. I am talking, of course, about a one Potter, who lays know at our feet, nothing more than a beaten and bloody wizard, shamed, and without a wand by which to lay his claim to magic."

Harry wheezed his acknowledgement of the man's ego, both faintly amused and horrified that the Dark Lord compared his empire to a phoenix. It was a mockery of Dumbledore and of the Order, of which few remained. Harry grit his teeth, wishing desperately he could move his legs, so that he could deliver a good, hard kick to Voldemort's shins. The dark wizard looked down and gave him a thin, triumphant smile, as if knowing his thoughts and silently laughing at him for his helplessness. "After this day there will be nothing left to challenge our rule, the mandate of destiny that says pure blood shall always stay superior to that of another, lesser creature."

Voldemort's smile became unbelievably sinister as he pointed the yew wand clasped in his spidery hand at Harry, who was showing the first signs of struggle at his feet. "Any last words, Potter?"

"Yeah," Harry spat out viciously, trying not to let the despair he felt inside show in his voice. He had failed, and now the wizarding world would have no hope. "I hope you rot in hell, you slimy, sick bastard."

Voldemort laughed. "I already _have,_ Potter."

And with a brilliant flash of green light, a triumphant laugh and the cheers of the Dark Side the last hope of the wizarding world knew no more.

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**A/N: I know, I'm rather cruel, aren't I? Well, no one says Voldemort is nice. Anyhow, here's the prologue, and I hope to get started on the first chapter soon. Constructive criticism is always welcome.****Chapter Song: "Unbroken" by KillSwitch Engage**


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